University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Why, said I, as I hasted forward, is my fortune so
abundant in unforeseen occurrences? Is every man,
who leaves his cottage and the impressions of his infancy
behind him, ushered into such a world of revolutions
and perils as have trammelled my steps? or, is
my scene indebted for variety and change to my propensity
to look into other people's concern, and to make
their sorrows and their joys mine?

To indulge an adventurous spirit, I left the precincts
of the barn-door, enlisted in the service of a stranger
and encountered a thousand dangers to my virtue under
the disastrous influence of Welbeck. Afterward
my life was set at hazard in the cause of Wallace, and
now am I loaded with the province of protecting the
helpless Eliza Hadwin and the unfortunate Clemenza.
My wishes are fervent, and my powers shall not be
inactive in their defence, but how slender are these
powers!

In the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed,
some consolation for Clemenza. It must be my business
to lay before my friend Stevens the particulars of
what has befallen me, and to entreat his directions how
this disconsolate girl may be most effectually succoured.
It may be wise to take her from her present abode,

and place her under some chaste and humane guardianship,
where she may gradually lose remembrance of
her dead infant and her specious betrayer. The barrier
that severs her from Welbeck must be high as
heaven and insuperable as necessity.

But, soft! Talked she not of Welbeck? Said she
not that he was in prison and was sick? Poor wretch!
I thought thy course was at an end; that the penalty
of guilt no longer weighed down thy heart. That
thy misdeeds and thy remorses were buried in a common
and obscure grave; but it seems thou art still
alive.

Is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration
to innocence and peace? Thou art no obdurate criminal;
hadst thou less virtue, thy compunctions would
be less keen. Wert thou deaf to the voice of duty,
thy wanderings into guilt and folly would be less fertile
of anguish. The time will perhaps come, when
the measure of thy transgressions and calamities will
overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be too conspicuous
to escape thy discernment. Surely, even for
such transgressors as thou, there is a salutary power in
the precepts of truth and the lessons of experience.

But, thou art imprisoned and art sick. This, perhaps,
is the crisis of thy destiny. Indigence and dishonour
were the evils, to shun which thy integrity and
peace of mind have been lightly forfeited. Thou hast
found that the price was given in vain; that the hollow
and deceitful enjoyments of opulence and dignity
were not worth the purchase; and that, frivolous and
unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leads to
them is that of honesty and diligence. Thou art in
prison and art sick; and there is none to cheer thy
hour with offices of kindness, or uphold thy fainting
courage by the suggestions of good counsel. For
such as thou the world has no compassion. Mankind
will pursue thee to the grave with execrations. Their
cruelty will be justified or palliated, since they know
thee not. They are unacquainted with the goadings
of thy conscience and the bitter retributions which

thou art daily suffering: they are full of their own
wrongs, and think only of those tokens of exultation
and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming
in thy intercourse with them. It is I only that thoroughly
know thee, and can rightly estimate thy claims
to compassion.

I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou
meritest some gratitude at my hands. Shall I not visit
and endeavor to console thee in thy distress? Let
me, at least, ascertain thy condition, and be the instrument
in repairing the wrongs which thou hast inflicted.
Let me gain, from contemplation of thy misery,
new motives to sincerity and rectitude.

While occupied by these reflections, I entered the
city. The thoughts which engrossed my mind related
to Welbeck. It is not my custom to defer till tomorrow
what can be done to-day. The destiny of
man frequently hangs upon the lapse of a minute. I
will stop, said I, at the prison; and, since the moment
of my arrival may not be indifferent, I will go
thither with all possible haste. I did not content myself
with walking, but, regardless of the comments of
passengers, hurried along the way at full speed.

Having enquired for Welbeck, I was conducted
through a dark room, crouded with beds, to a staircase.
Never before had I been in a prison. Never
had I smelt so noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so
begrimed with filth and misery. The walls and floors
were alike squallid and detestable. It seemed that in
this house existence would be bereaved of all its attractions;
and yet those faces, which could be seen
through the obscurity that encompassed them, were
either void of care or distorted with mirth.

This, said I, as I followed my conductor, is the residence
of Welbeck. What contrasts are these to the
repose and splendor, pictured walls, glossy hangings,
gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from cieling to floor,
carpets of Tauris, and the spotless and transcendent
brilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former
dwelling? Here brawling and the shuffling of rude

feet are eternal. The air is loaded with the exhalations
of disease and the fumes of debauchery. Thou
art cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled
to share thy narrow cell with some stupid ruffian.
Formerly, the breezes were courted by thy lofty windows.
Aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth.
Menials, splendid in apparel, shewed their faces with
diffidence in they apartment, trod lightly on thy marble
floor, and suffered not the sanctity of silence to be
troubled by a whisper. Thy lamp shot its rays through
the transparency of alabaster, and thy fragrant lymph
flowed from vases of porcelain. Such were formerly
the decorations of thy hall, the embellishments of thy
existence; but now—alas!—

We reached a chamber in the second story. My
conductor knocked at the door. No one answered.
Repeated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the
person within. At length, lifting a latch, we entered
together.

The prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned
from the door. I advanced softly, making a sign to
the keeper to withdraw. Welbeck was not asleep, but
merely buried in reverie. I was unwilling to disturb
his musing, and stood with my eyes fixed upon his
form. He appeared unconscious that any one had entered.

At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture,
and perceived me in my motionless and gazing
attitude. Recollect in what circumstances we had last
parted. Welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with
him, from that interview, a firm belief, that I should
speedily die. His prognostic, however, was fated to
be contradicted.

His first emotions were those of surprize. These
gave place to mortification and rage. After eyeing
me for some time, he averted his glances, and that effort
which is made to dissipate some obstacle to breathing,
shewed me that his sensations were of the most
excruciating kind. He laid his head upon the pillow,

and sunk into his former musing. He disdained, or
was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or contempt.

In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view
his countenance, I had observed tokens of a kind very
different from those which used to be visible. The
gloomy and malignant were more conspicuous. Health
had forsaken his cheeks, and taken along with it those
flexible parts, which formerly enabled him to cover his
secret torments and insidious purposes, beneath a veil
of benevolence and cheerfulness. Alas! said I, loud
enough for him to hear me, here is a monument of
ruin. Despair and mischievous passions are too deeply
rooted in this heart for me to tear them away.

These expressions did not escape his notice. He
turned once more and cast sullen looks upon me.
There was somewhat in his eyes that made me shudder.
They denoted that his reverie was not that of grief,
but of madness. I continued, in a less steadfast voice
than before:

Unhappy Clemenza! I have performed thy message.
I have visited him that is sick and in prison. Thou
hadst cause for anguish and terror, even greater cause
than thou imaginedst. Would to God that thou
wouldst be contented with the report which I shall
make; that thy misguided tenderness would consent to
leave him to his destiny, would suffer him to die alone;
but that is a forbearance which no eloquence that I
possess will induce thee to practise. Thou must come,
and witness for thyself.

In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects
which would be produced on the mind of Welbeck. I
was far from intending to instil into him a belief that
Glemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to enter
his apartment: yet no other images but these would,
perhaps, have roused him from his lethargy, and awakened
that attention which I wished to awaken. He
started up, and gazed fearfully at the door.

What! he cried. What! Is she here? Ye powers,
that have scattered woes in my path, spare me the

sight of her! But from this agony I will rescue myself.
The moment she appears I will pluck out these
eyes and dash them at her feet.

So saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon
the door. His hands were lifted to his head, as if ready
to execute his frantic purpose. I seized his arm,
and besought him to lay aside his terror, for that Clemenza
was far distant. She had no intention, and besides
was unable, to visit him.

Then I am respited. I breathe again. No; keep
her from a prison. Drag her to the wheel or to the
scaffold; mangle her with stripes; torture her with
famine; strangle her child before her face, and cast it
to the hungry dogs that are howling at the gate; but
—keep her from a prison. Never let her enter these
doors.—There he stopped; his eyes being fixed on the
floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. I
resumed:

She is occupied with other griefs than those connected
with the fate of Welbeck. She is not unmindful
of you: she knows you to be sick and in prison;
and I came to do for you whatever office your condition
might require, and I came at her suggestion. She,
alas! has full employment for her tears in watering
the grave of her child.

He started. What! dead? Say you that the child
is dead?

It is dead. I witnessed its death. I saw it expire
in the arms of its mother; that mother whom I formerly
met under your roof blooming and gay, but
whom calamity has tarnished and withered. I saw her
in the rayment of poverty, under an accursed roof;
desolate; alone; unsolaced by the countenance or sympathy
of human beings; approached only by those who
mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence, and
push her to infamy. I saw her leaning over the face
of her dying babe.

Welbeck put his hands to his head and exclaimed:
curses on thy lips, infernal messenger! Chant elsewhere
thy rueful ditty! Vanish! if thou wouldst not

feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty than
thine.

Till this moment the uproar in Welbeck's mind appeared
to hinder him from distinctly recognizing his
visitant. Now it seemed as if the incidents of our
last interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance.

What! This is the villain that rifled my cabinet,
the maker of my poverty and of all the evils which it
has since engendered! That has led me to a prison!
Execrable fool! you are the author of the scene that
you describe, and of horrors without number and name.
To whatever crimes I have been urged since that interview,
and the fit of madness that made you destroy
my property, they spring from your act; they flowed
from necessity, which, had you held your hand at that
fateful moment, would never have existed.

How dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy?
Why am I not alone? Fly! and let my miseries want,
at least, the aggravation of beholding their author.
My eyes loathe the sight of thee! My heart would
suffocate thee with its own bitterness! Begone!

I know not, I answered, why innocence should
tremble at the ravings of a lunatic; why it should be
overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches! Why it should
not deplore the errors of its foe, labor to correct those
errors, and—

Thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up
by my scorn; thank thy fate that no weapon is within
reach. Much has passed since I saw thee, and I am
a new man. I am no longer inconstant and cowardly.
I have no motives but contempt to hinder me from expiating
the wrongs which thou hast done me in thy
blood. I disdain to take thy life. Go; and let thy
fidelity, at least, to the confidence which I have placed
in thee, be inviolate. Thou hast done me harm enough,
but canst do, if thou wilt, still more. Thou canst betray
the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom, and rob
me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known
but to one among the living.

This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon
the past. I had confided this man's tale to you. The
secrecy, on which he so fondly Ieaned, was at an end.
Had I acted culpably or not?

But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt,
upon the past? The future was within my power, and
the road of my duty was too plain to be mistaken. I
would disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfully
encounter every consequence. I would summon my
friend to my aid, and take his counsel in the critical
emergency in which I was placed. I ought not to rely
upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being,
when another was so near whose discernment, and benevolence,
and knowledge of mankind, and power of
affording relief were far superior to mine.

Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment
without speaking; and, procuring pen and paper, dispatched
to you the billet which brought about our meeting.